Title: Fireflies
Author: missp2010 (its my first post here! been lurking all this time..)
Rating: G
Pairing: Sherlock/John (a little)
Warnings: N/A
Wordcount: 490 (very short)
Summary: Basically trying to get into Sherlock's mind those times when he is so lost in thought, he barely moves from the spot. You'll recognise where this is meant to be placed, episode wise, by the end. :) (originally posted on my livejournal)
…...

It starts with a slight precipitation. Like fireflies buzzing through conscious thought. Carrying facts like ammo ready to attack and blow holes through theories previously thought flawless.

Fireflies like torrential rain, a sheet, a bright light, a waterfall blocking out every natural sound, feeling, desire, need.

Need.

The need for information, explanation, answers.

No. Not need. Lust. It rattles him to the bone, like a twisted mix of morphine and amphetamine, numbing every irrelevant sensation, anything that could impede progress, but simultaneously provoking necessary thought into an absurd acceleration, one which sometimes even he can barely handle without the aid of a nicotine patch or three.

The light rises above him now, teases him in mid-air, forming some phantom, fallacy of a conclusion before, with a soft shake of his head, shattering into the rain again, planting soft kisses like butterflies at the nape of his neck as they fall, coaxing him to go deeper into comprehension, forget more what it's like to be human. Opinion born of passion is not to be trusted. Far too dangerous. How many lose their minds due to passion, becoming nothing more than a sticky, cloying mess.

The light is good, protects him from such a fate, he likes to drown in the light.

The images of the day so far skitter through his mind, like an old movie projector desperately trying to choke out its last film before the layer of dust gathers, and it becomes obsolete.

How dust is always gathering, an enemy invasion, the only way to defeat it is to keep moving forward, thinking, seeing, a mental dustbuster he must commit to using every second of every day at the risk of becoming slow and dull. He pities others who have let the dust collect.
He would sooner die than become dull. A dull man with dull grievances about the postal service or the bus always being late... the very thought makes his skin crawl, his breath quicken, causes his feet to run that much faster in the other direction, drag him towards the next solution however far away from the norm it may be.

His heart begins to thud in the room like a separate entity, beating at him, reminding him of his mortality, waking him up, screaming at him to piece together the puzzle, another trophy to his name before the inevitable whenever it may come.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Like footsteps deep in the cavity of his chest, weighing him down, the only thing holding him to this earth.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Getting closer, moving towards him, somewhere off to his left.

No. Wait. Not his heart. But actual footsteps. The one man who can pull back the covers he has shrouded himself in and inject a little reality, is standing in the room.

"I said could you pass me a pen."

"What, when?"

"About an hour ago."

A sigh deep from the other man's chest, washes over him, thins the waterfall surrounding him.

"Didn't notice I'd gone out then."